


Major Tom to Ground Control

by action_cat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Coma, Death, Gen, Mind Palace, Multi, relfection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/action_cat/pseuds/action_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh look, Sherlock's in a coma again. And again, he's going to reflect on his life because thats perfectly normal when you fall in a coma. Dammit John, look what you've done again. Anyway, Sherlock fell in a coma because of Mary. Again. And now, he has to find the right doors to get out!  Oh, and a woman he murdered says hello.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Major Tom to Ground Control

_Ground Control to Major Tom. Ground Control to Major Tom._

Sherlock gasped and opened his eyes wide. He was on his back, in a white room. Everywhere hurt, especially the bullet wound in his chest. Instinctively, he put his hand over it, and expected to feel his blood pulsing beneath his fingers. Yet there was no liquid, no struggle to suppress the flow of blood. He sat up and looked down at his chest. Yes, there was a red blotch where the bullet entered, but the blood wasn't flowing freely. Imagine it, as when you throw paint at a canvas. It wasn't expanding, simply staying frozen in place. A red splash upon his white shirt. 

 _Why am I wearing white? Oh yes, John's birthday party. Rubbish, I liked this tux._ Sherlock looked around the room he was in. The walls were white, and two armchairs sat a length away from him. They resembled the ones in Baker Street, John's Union Jack pillow and all. In the corner, was a closet. Suddenly, the room was extremely familiar.

 _Ah, Phase One for Coma rehabilitation. I just have to find my way through the doors._ Sherlock stood up, dusting off by habit, even though there was no single bit of dust to be found anywhere in his mind. He walked over to the armchairs and sat down for a second. Arms on knees, hand reverently posed beneath the chin, focusing in the proper rehabilitation codes. Suddenly, a woman flashed in front of him, like a blip. She walked over to Sherlock and placed a phone down on the cushion's armrests. The woman smiled slightly, then blipped again, disappearing when Sherlock's eyes flickered towards her. Sherlock frowned, confused, then the weight of the appearance caused him to inhale sharply. Either this was a intruder, or a protocol.  _Irrelevant. I'll focus on that later._ He glanced toward the armrest, and picked up the phone. It was Jennifer Wilsons', and was almost identical to his own. He felt his pockets. His own phone was missing.

_Take your protein pills and put your helmet on._

Sherlock stood up, and slipped the phone into his pocket. He walked over to the closet, which was as far as he knew, the only door in this room. As he walked closer, the closet door seemed to come in greater detail. It was wood, with chipped, peeling paint, a faint blue on the front. The old glass doorknob was connected to a brass plate, and when Sherlock grasped the knob, he changed everything. As soon as he touched the glass, he stiffened as the woman showed up. She smiled once again, and took his hand. And at once, he remembers why she is there.

He calls her the woman because she is, the woman. He doesn't mean Irene Adler, although she is another woman in his mind. When he thinks of this one, everything is bright and sharp, clear as a crystal yet dark as night. She is kind and brave, but still a liar and a scheming bitch. Which is probably why she wanders the mind, although it's always subtle and concealed. Sherlock grabbed her hand, and gazed, painfully, as the bullet wound became real. He gasped, and doubled over, letting go of the doorknob. All at once, she disappears, and the pain fades. Sherlock stands up again, the pain gone. He grabs the knob and pushes it open, and goes into a garden, and the door slams shut behind him.

_Ground Control to Major Tom. Commencing countdown, engines on._

Sherlock stumbles into the garden. It's a beautiful place, exotic plants going everywhere under the bright sun. Green grass, blue skies, a paradise. Yet no John.  _John._ The name brings memories, both happy and sad, but with a hope and a wish for the future. As beautiful as the garden is, it's fuzzy. Not texture, but unclear. Cloudy. Sherlock turns around, trying to grasp onto a focus, and there sits Mycroft. On a bench. With an umbrella on a cloudless day. Mycroft smiles.

"Hello brother dear. Such a lovely mind palace, it's a shame your appearance isn't this understandable." Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Get out of my mind palace, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted, striding towards his brother. Mycroft smiled, a little mockingly. 

"You never did want my help." He disappeared, a blip like the woman. Sherlock began to breathe heavily, rustling through the plants, being very careful not to hurt any. Through the field of flowers he did indeed stride through, like a horse among battle, ignoring the ones that called out to tempt him. Turning a blind eye, he walked until he lost sight of the field where Mycroft appeared and could see trees. They were strong and mighty, towering over almost everything. Yet they were old, and had flaws. Some trees were diseased, some about to be cut down. A few had holes drilled in from birds and insects.  _The government._ Sherlock thought almost instantly. Another rustling noise sounded behind him. He instantly turns around, and there again is the Woman. She smiled. Sherlock walked backwards, hands outward, trying to protect himself.

"Don't touch me!" Sherlock tripped over a tree stump, and lands on his back. The Woman stands on top of the stump, staring down at him. She smiles, her tan dress floating a bit in the wind. She should be cold, but she doesn't look so. Her red hair drifts a bit, and she smirks.

"Mr. Holmes, I think we've gone way past that time. Then again, you did murder me, so why shouldn't I?" She reached out a hand, offering to pull him up. Sherlock hesitates. Slowly, he reaches up, and she pulls him up, surprisingly strong for her size. And he remembers.

"Amelia. Nice of you to finally show up." Sherlock mutters, eyes downcast. Amelia tilts his chin up, forcing him to look in her bright green eyes. 

"My dear Sherlock, I never left. Come along, we have things to do and people to murder." She turns on the spot, hops off the stump, and begins trotting left, through a field of wheat. Sherlock follows behind. 

_Check ignition, and and God's love be with you._

" So I assume we just carry on as though I'm still alive in Edinburgh? That case we were on, I'd never had as much fun." Amelia joked a bit, her accent poking out on the vowels. Sherlock smiled to himself, same old Amelia. 

" You're dead."

"I know that. What did you do after I died?" Amelia clenched her fist a bit, her voice still light.

"After I 'murdered' you, as you so put it, I went back home. Mycroft thought I was abusing again, because of the case, and he made me get a flatmate. I've got one, but he married a couple of months back." Sherlock blinked a bit.

" You never asked him? I know you fancy anyone who calls you brilliant." Amelia scoffed a bit, crescent shaped indents on her palm.

" Well…I tried. But I don't fancy everyone who calls me brilliant!" Sherlock spoke, preparing for the next. He was right to do so.

Amelia swirled around, eyes flaming, and slapped him hard across the cheek. Sherlock stumbled a bit, and almost ran into her. She blinked in surprise.

"You let me slap you." Hands on hips, Amelia was mad and a bit in disbelief. Sherlock stretched his jaw, straightened up. His shirt was rumpled, but that didn't matter.

 "I deserved it."

"You did." They continued walking, side by side now. " You should have asked him. You deserved it." Amelia wasn't as mad, but wasn't completely ready for consolations. 

" After Edinburgh, I wasn't ready. But I need to get out. The only reason you would show yourself in my mind palace is if it were serious, so how serious am I?" Amelia laughed a bit.

"Sherlock, you're in a whole shitload of trouble. But first, let's find that door." By now, the field was diminishing. They could see a cabin, small and minuscule, resisting the strong winds.

"Amelia, over there!" They ran together, hand in hand, towards the door. "Ready?" Sherlock nodded, and he pulled open the door. They were sucked through.

_Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Liftoff!_

They landed in Mrs. Hudson's flat, with Mrs. Hudson herself sitting down. Her eyes brightened when she saw Sherlock. 

"Hello Sherlock, would you like a cuppa? And you, Amelia?" Amelia sat down, and accepted. Sherlock refused, surveying the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson stood up, and walked over to the stove. She plopped the kettle on the stove, and lit the gas. 

"Have you seen the papers? It's all over the place, I fear for John's sanity." Mrs. Hudson sat down, looking questionably at Sherlock. " You should be there to support him."

"What papers?" Said Sherlock sharply. " Show me." Mrs. Hudson passed over the newspaper, the headline blazing at Sherlock.

TEN DEAD IN CITY BOMBING, SUSPECT THE INFAMOUS A.G.R.A. SHERLOCK HOLMES PUT ON CASE.

Sherlock stiffened slightly. Amelia peered over his shoulder, clenching her jaw.

"Glad I'm not alive for this." Amelia whispered. Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly. The kettle whistled slightly, puffs of steam floating towards the ceiling.

"No dear, if you were alive you could give him support." Mrs. Hudson went over and checked the kettle, then sat down.

"I assume John is A.G.R.A.'s husband?" Amelia sat on the counter. Mrs. Hudson nodded, handing her a cup of tea. Sherlock was in disbelief, and a knock came from the front door. He stood up, knocking over a cup.

"I'll go get that. " Sherlock started to walk over, when Amelia cried out.

"Sherlock! Don't leave me here! We have to go together!" Sherlock nodded, and Amelia hopped off the counter. Mrs. Hudson looked at them praisingly, and took the kettle off.

"Now don't go dying again dear, it sets off your mother." Together, Amelia and Sherlock strutted to the door, and pulled it open. They were sucked through again.

_This is Ground Control to Major Tom, you've really made the grade. And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear, Now it's time to leave the capsule, if you dare._

Sherlock gasped. The bullet hurt again, and a bit more blood poured out. He kneeled, a hand over his chest, opposite his heart. Fleetingly, before he leaned again the stairs, he saw Mary holding a gun. Amelia was right next to him, drifting from John to Amelia. She was changing, and there was a bullet wound as well. Amelia/John stared at him, and he realized Mary had shot them both. Amelia/John smiled, but as Sherlock painfully tried to get up, Mary was gone. They weren't in Baker Street anymore, instead in an underground parking room. Blood was seeping from Amelia, and Sherlock seemed to have a iron bar painfully tightening around his chest. 

"Amelia, are you alright?" She was on the floor, eyes open, gasping heavily. Sherlock held her, tears dripping down his face.

"Shit, I hate it when I get shot twice. At least, I do now." Amelia joked, even though she was dying. Sherlock smiled grimly. Amelia reached up for his face.

"Hey, don't cry. We were good partners, best detectives in London before the Edinburgh case. We solved crimes, fought villains, we were superheroes." She wasn't sad, but there were still tears. She focused on Sherlock.

"I'm sorry for murdering you." Sherlock sat her against a car tire, and sat down next to her, his arm around her.

"I murdered myself. That's what happens when you work for the Holmes family. Never should have gone to that rooftop alone." Amelia smiled, and sighed, closing her eyes. Her tan dress, so old-fashion with the cut, almost Victorian, was tattered and dirty. Her long red hair was spread out like angel wings, and her green eyes were closed. A single bullet wound designated her heart, and blood seeped everywhere. She was exactly like when Sherlock found her, in Edinburgh, on that roof. And then she disappeared. Sherlock was sitting alone, next to a bloodstain by a car. He was in shock, he had just watched his former partner die. Again. Amelia had been extremely pretty, and she always seemed to have a boyfriend. They didn't get in the way of each other much, and they kept it that way. But still, she was a good detective.

Sherlock sat up. He walked to the end of the parking structure, and leaned again a wall.  _Mrs. Hudson told us to not die, it sets off our mothers. But this is my mind palace, my mother isn't here right now._ He breathed in shakily, and put his face in his hands. After a while he stopped, a red-eyed, stuffy nosed shell of a person. What was he even doing there? Alone in his own mind-palace, stuck in a parking garage, crying over the death of someone who had died over five years ago. It was a stupid moment. He was stronger than this. 

Getting a grip, Sherlock walked over to the elevator. He put his hands in his pocket, a bit cold without his greatcoat, but nonetheless excited. He pulled out Jennifer Wilson's phone, and clicked send. The doors opened, and Sherlock Holmes walked not into the waiting car of the elevator, but the shaft itself. Into darkness he goes, and we can only hope he will come out into the light.

_This is Major Tom to Ground Control, I'm stepping through the door. And I'm floating in the most peculiar way, and the stars look very different today._

He was in a hospital. It was quiet, except for the sound of someone tapping their fingers against something, too thud-like to be glass. It was shuddering, and it wasn't from boredom. Someone was tapping out morse code. Sherlock followed the noise, passing people who could be mistaken for sleeping. But they were, and weren't. He was in the coma ward. He ran faster. The noise got louder towards the end of the ward. And skidded to a stop. John was sitting across from a body, tapping out words. His head was blocking the upper torso and face.

 _It's Mary. Even though she killed those people and shot me, and him too judging on the position he's in, he's still loyal. I should've asked sooner._ Sherlock slowly dragged his feet over to John, and placed his hand on his shoulder.

" I'm quite sorry Jo-" He looked up. It wasn't Mary on the bed, it was him. As in John Hamish Watson, was sitting across from Sherlock Holmes's body, tapping out words in morse. Sherlock stopped in his place, then sat down on the bed.  _This isn't my mind palace. I'm actually in the hospital, with another bloody out of body experience. God._

John slowly tapped out the next few words, the same fingers making the same dents. His eyes were fixed upon his fingers, making sure they made the same dents. Sherlock clasped his hands nervously. The coma him was resting peacefully, tubes being fed into his mouth and nose, the monitor beeping every few moments. And yet John didn't look at the monitor, he didn't look at Sherlock, he looked at his fingers, and willed them to continue the pattern. Once in a while, for a single millisecond, he would pause, and then continue. Sherlock wondered how long he'd been there doing this. 

Footsteps clattered down the linoleum, towards Sherlock, Coma Sherlock, and John. Sherlock tensed, but John continued to fix his eyes upon his fingers. The footsteps clattered closer, and turned out to belong to Lestrade. He was carrying a coffee, and pulled up a chair next to John. Lestrade put the coffee next to John, but John ignored it. Lestrade sighed.

"Tapping in morse isn't going to bring him back, John." Lestrade leaned back in his chair, casting a sorrowful look at Sherlock. John sighed, and sniffed a bit. He stopped tapping, and turned to Lestrade.

"Yeah, well I can at least try." John took a sip of the coffee and grimaced, but took another sip. Lestrade watched him, carefully as though in a second he might start foaming at the mouth and turn into a raving lunatic. John turned back over to Coma Sherlock and sighed again. He took up his previous position, but but right before he began to tap, Lestrade grabbed his hand.

"Come on. I'm taking you back to Baker Street. You can't stay here." John resisted for a few seconds, but then gave up and went with Lestrade. He sent one last sorrowful look at Sherlcok, then went out of the ward, Lestrade's arm across his shoulder. Lestrade didn't look back. Sherlock tried to follow, but ended up just staring at John's retreating back as he exited the ward.

_For here am I, sitting in a tin can. Far above the world, Planet Earth is blue. And there's nothing I can do._

Sherlock sat on that bed for seven hours, twenty-three minutes, and seventeen seconds. He counted every last second in his head, since all the doors were just doors. This wasn't his mind-palace anymore, there was dust. There were bugs and spiders in the corners, there was dust on the curtains, and there were stains everywhere. But it wasn't a padded room, and for those seven hours he mapped out every possibility in his mind. It was infuriating, how he could only move in that room. For a few minutes he stared at himself, wondering where Mary was and if the bullet was still inside him. He felt his back. No exit wound. Unless he went into surgery, it could still be in there. 

John came in at seven hours, thirty minutes and forty-seven seconds. Sherlock watched him exit the taxi from the window, enter the hospital, and walk through those doors and down to Sherlock's bed. A few other people were in the ward, seeing relatives and whatnot, but their patterns were irregular and unpredictable. John came everyday at 10:35 precisely, and left at 9:30. Sometimes, Molly or Mrs. Hudson would come. When that happened, they turned on the telly and watched a bit, usually commenting on the BBC's new shows. Mrs. Hudson always watched  _Call the Midwife,_ but Molly preferred  _Merlin._ Sherlock thought both were interesting, but usually liked it when John turned it on to regular news. He would comment, even though John couldn't hear him. 

For a few weeks, the pattern was continuous, Molly coming on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Mrs. Hudson coming on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Lestrade coming on Saturdays with everyone on Sundays. Molly was getting along quite nicely, she had a new boyfriend, a journalist, and he seemed nice. , Whenever he came, Sherlock saw that he treated her with respect, and Sherlock always caught him staring at her with something-love perhaps? Admirance? Something. 

Mrs. Hudson always came with tea and biscuits, and usually knitted a bit. In the few weeks Sherlock had stay in that shape, she had knitted a couple of hats, some socks, and a jumper. John wore it often. As usual, Mrs. Hudson herself was spotless, being neat and prim and whatnot, but that reassured him that Baker Street was under control. Hopefully, everything was alright. Sherlock hoped she hadn't found the eyeballs yet.

Lestrade was graying, but even though he said it was from age Sherlock knew he dyed it. Lestrade thought it made him look better, and he was right. A bit of dignity. Lestrade was usually the one that took John home, but once in a while Mycroft came. But that was rare. 

On Sundays everyone crowded by Sherlock's bed and watched telly. Usually there was a bit of argument between Mrs. Hudson and Molly, and sometimes Lestrade, but when this happened John laughed a bit. John still tapped, but no one ever commented. And for a few weeks, this was the schedule. 

It wasn't a perfect life, but when Sherlock was in a coma, he was briefly reminded of what a family was. There were your siblings, your mother, your father, and that one uncle who joined for Sunday dinner once in a blue moon. Oh yeah, Anderson came by once or twice to say hello. One time Sally Donovan. She and Anderson weren't dating, but they didn't talk much. In a way he wished life could remain like this forever, but in another way, he wanted people to notice him. Being comatose was awfully boring. Being in a tin can, your soul a spaceship drifting throughout the universe. 

Mrs. Hudson didn't come one day. It was a Wednesday, and although Molly was supposed to come tomorrow, it was lonely and sad with John tapping out morse on the table. That was the day the Doctors' came.

"Mr. Watson?" One of the doctors, a woman, with dark hair and a tag that read  _Dr. Jones_ tapped John on the shoulder.

"Hmm?" John looked up. Dr. Jones smiled warmly.

"We need to talk to you about Mr. Holmes's condition." John shifted in his chair, angling it to give her his attention. 

"He needs surgery. The bullet in his chest could be blocking some vital tissue that could prevent him from waking up." Dr. Jones pulled up a chair, while her associative, a scrawny man with brown hair, sat down nervously.

"Well then. I suppose he should get it immediately." John smiled, but it was fake. The brown-haired doctor, a Dr. Williams, stood up and shook hands with John.

"Trust me, he'll be alright." The doctors left, while John looked sadly at Sherlock.

"Did you hear that? I might get to see you again." John mumbled, tapping again.

                                                                                                      *A few days later*

They started to prep Sherlock for surgery. John wasn't allowed in the room, but everything was clean and sanitary. As they rolled him in, John looked after Coma Sherlock wistfully. That was only the beginning.

_Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles I'm feeling very still. And I think my spaceship knows which way to go. Tell my wife I love her very much, she knows._

Removing the bullet proved harder than they thought. It was stuck right behind two ribs, lodged in-between like a rock. It was painful, and long. The first surgery took over eight hours, and during that time John sat in the waiting room. It was hell, it was horrible. Sherlock, the out of body one, had no morphine. He could feel the clamps opening his skin, every incision the doctors made, every nick, every cut, everything. And it was hell. He wished he could die, to escape this madness and be free. Oh, to be blissfully free! But at the end of each surgery, Sherlock knew where to go. At least, he thought he did.

It took over different three surgeries and twenty-five hours to remove the bullet that Mary Morstan had lodged in him. John had had his bullet taken out, but he still changed the bandages every day. It was a crazy experience. So when the doctors said he had to have one more to check on the vertebrae, Sherlock prepared for the worst. Before the surgery, everyone came. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Anderson. It was Sunday, so they all had tea at Sherlock's bedside. They all talked and laughed, making jokes and discussing the recent state of the British Commonwealth. A few arguments were made, a cup smashed, but in the end, they were all smiles. John was the last to leave.

"I'll see you after the surgery." He muttered, tapping out morse on the table one last time. Sherlock watched him exit, and could not help feeling a terrible sense of something that had not yet come to pass. 

Coma Sherlock was prepped for surgery, and then wheeled to the operation room. Sherlock followed behind, closely. He prepped himself for the pain.  _One last one, and then I wake up. I'll be perfectly fine._ It was time. The time was 5:43 pm. 

"Okay, he's under." Dr. Williams said carefully. The surgeons made a small incision upon Sherlock's back, under his ribs, and put the clamps in. It was weird, looking down at your organs, all pulpy and throbbing, while you yourself feel every nick. It was the craziest thing Sherlock had experienced in his life. 

The doctors worked quietly, speeding. But that was their mistake.

"His bp's dropping." scrambled one nurse, rushing over to the monitor.

"Heart down up by seven counts." said another.

"Blood pressure increasing. Doctor Jones, we need to seal him up he's only got a few minutes!"

"We can still get it! I see the bullet!" Doctor Jones worked quickly, brow furrowed. Everyone was on the edge of their seat. Meanwhile, Sherlock felt as though he was on fire. Every vein, every bone in his body burned, and all he could do is stand there.

"Heart rate dropping, Doctor, we don't have much time! He's flatlining!" A nurse grabbed a nearby crash cart, while two others flipped Sherlock over.

"Clear! Get a BMV in him and start pumping!" Their voices were quite softer now.

_Ground Control to Major Tom._

"Hurry! The bullet is lodged in the vein preventing electrical signals to the heart! Clear!" Everyone was rushing about in a manner. Sherlock didn't hurt anymore. In fact, everything was rather comfortable.

_Your circuits dead, there's something_ _wrong._

"Clear! And one, two, three, four! Move! He's flatlining! " 

_Can you hear me, Major Tom?_

_Can you hear me Major Tom?_

_Can you hear me Major Tom?_

_Can you..._

"Call it."

 

 

                                                          *The next day.*

"You should be very glad he's alive. The doctors were right to try again. John, are you listening to me?" Mrs. Hudson tapped on John's arm, were he sat gazing in the distance. He jumped, startled, then looked at her.

"You know, in the eighties there was a singer named David Bowie, and he wrote a song about a space captain stuck in outer space. It started out as a brave and courageous mission, but by the end he couldn't do anything." John looked over to Sherlock, and sighed a bit. " _Here I am, floating round my tin can. Far above the Moon, Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do."_ John looked over at Mrs. Hudson again, who looked a bit worrisome. " I can't do anything about this, and I should have." Mrs. Hudson consoled John.

"Dear, you've been through a lot lately, with Mary and whatnot. Maybe it's time for- wait a second, did his heart rate just go up?" Mrs. Hudson frowned at the monitor, as though trying to solve a true problem. " I believe it just did."

"Nurse! Nurse! Come in here!" John got up and shouted at the door. Running footsteps sounded, and a nurse showed up. She took off her stethoscope and put it over his heart, measuring it on her watch. 

"My god, look! His toes just twitched! Oh my God!" Mrs. Hudson practically screamed. "Sherlock, wake up! Sherlock!" 

"Mr. Holmes, can you hear me? Mr. Holmes, can you understand what I am saying." The nurse patted his cheek a bit hard, and intended to wake him up. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock!"

"Sherlock, please wake up. Please." John whispered, tapping out his sequence one more time. And then, as though a miracle had descended, Sherlock's eyes flew open. The brightest blue, wide open, gasping. Sherlock Holmes bolted up from his sleeping position, and slouched a bit, breathing heavily. John stared, then clutched Sherlock very tight in a death embrace. Sherlock returned the favor. John blinked a bit. Mrs. Hudson screamed, clapping her hands. The nurse shushed them, calling her superiors. Mrs. Hudson, still ecstatic, went with her to phone Mycroft. Out of habit, John began to tap again. Sherlock, after spending months in a coma, recognized the sequence, one he had typed John right before he was shot by Mary.

"I love you too."

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I know it was a bit confusing.  
> First-  
> Amelia was an old fellow consulting detective. They never really had a relationship, but were still friends. He's got her hand somewhere.  
> Mary shot him and John in an underground parking structure, then vanished. Since John passed out first and Sherlock managed to give him a tourniquet, he didn't fall into a coma for loss of blood.  
> I know, I put in Merlin. I just felt that Molly might have a secret obsession for wizardry and stuff.
> 
> Thats' all, thanks for reading!


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